


Some Beautiful Boy

by blue_sweater



Category: Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Emotional Baggage, M/M, Medical Condition, Trust Issues, but also sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-30
Updated: 2013-04-22
Packaged: 2017-11-19 22:08:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/578169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blue_sweater/pseuds/blue_sweater
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Q notices that Bond is developing an emotional attachment to him. It makes sense, of course - he is one of Bond's few regular contacts. Q is curious and wants to test the extent of Bond's subservience. But can Q conduct his experiments on Bond and remain indifferent, or will Bond be the one to bring down his walls?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I just thought this was a really interesting relationship to study and hopefully it gets sexier as we progress... I have taken a bit of artistic license with the story, changed a few things and added my own stuff which I don't usually do. But yes, it's been fun to write and I hope you enjoy. :)

_You sit there in your heartache_  
 _Waiting on some beautiful boy_  
 _To save you from your old ways_

 

Neatly clipped nails tapped furiously at keys and though nobody else saw it, his front teeth were biting sharply at the inside of his lip. It was painful but it helped him to concentrate, to stay focused, it made the ringing disappear from his ears as he stared with narrowed eyes at his monitor. These hacking jobs were the sort he described as only ever being fun after the fact - while he was doing it, though he might be excited and his cogs were spinning, it made his eye twitch and he often started to sweat. It was far more of a rush afterwards, knowing he had beaten another firewall.

Of course, it would always be much easier to work if Bond didn't interrupt at the most inconvenient of times.

"Q, I need a new car."

His voice was as calm and piercing as ever. Most noises could be blocked out, but Q found whenever Bond spoke, he couldn't ignore it.

Barely able to contain his sigh, Q replied, "I'm busy."

"I also need a new GPS."

Q couldn't ignore this. He glanced over his shoulder and glared at the agent, in his dry-cleaned suit and his smug face, bright blue eyes illuminated by the bright lights of Q's workshop. It was lunch break and the others had gone out, but Q was trying to get this done before the afternoon, otherwise there was a chance the Japanese mafia might get back from their nightly run and discover their computer had been broken into. Not that Q was that messy, but there was a chance he wouldn't be able to hide his activities if they interrupted his hacking.

Still, Bond's inability to keep any of the equipment given to him was a more pressing matter.

"You realise that this department spends more money on you than any other double-0 agent?"

"I do," Bond replied with a smirk. "And I don't care."

Q did actually sigh this time. He stood up from his desk and wandered over to the cabinets where the tech gear was kept, and he pulled out a GPS device. It was of his own making, it was automatic and responded to voice activation. It contained maps from every corner of the earth and used each and every satellite in the sky to ensure precision. It also came with a few small tracking devices, which could be attached to vehicles or persons of interest, and their movements would be followed on the device.

"Dare I ask what happened to the last one?" Q asked.

"I dropped it."

Q raised his eyebrows.

"In a lake," added Bond, again with the smile. Like it was amusing.

"You do know that these cost more than your entire wardrobe?"

"Not that you care much for wardrobes," Bond retorted, giving Q the once over, clearly disapproving of the younger man's crumpled trousers, his oversized buttoned shirt and maroon cardigan. 

Q didn't take offense. He sat at a desk all day, it wasn't like he was dressing up for anybody. He was thin-lipped as he handed the GPS to the agent, and he said, "Do try not to drop this one, in a lake or otherwise."

"And what of the car?"

"Do I look like a car dealership to you? Use some other resource, I'm busy."

"So, steal one?"

"Like I said, some other resource," Q replied, turning back to his computer.

"You're encouraging me to steal." Q couldn't see Bond, but he could hear the amused tone to his voice.

Nudging his glasses back up his nose, he said, "You are taking up precious time which I could be using to gather information concerning international organised crime. I'd encourage you to filch from the Queen if it got you out of my hair."

"And what lovely hair it is," Bond said.

Q glanced over his shoulder to see the agent walking out of his workshop and he wondered for a moment if Bond was being serious. Not that it mattered, but it was an interesting thing to say nonetheless. Q wasn't much of a psychologist, he was better with machines than with people (obviously) but lately it seemed that Bond was breaking more things and needing Q on the line whenever he went on a mission. It was frustrating for Q but he had to admit that he was getting a bit more recognition from those higher up.

Still, whether Bond's attachment to Q was for personal or professional purposes, it wasn't Q's job to look after him, or to be his friend.

Frowning slightly, Q thought back to his training. Non-field workers at MI6 were taught quite a bit about agents and what protocols to take when an agent developed a relationship with another worker, even at a friendship level. A lot of agents weren't capable of keeping friends because they were either busy or emotionally incapable. Q was under the impression that Bond was both, or at least he was supposed to be. The closest thing Bond had to a friend was M, and she had died. The new M was good but not a friend, not at all.

After thinking for a moment, Q came to the conclusion that Bond's best friend was probably either his gun or his tailor. Because he was good at shooting and wearing suits.

Still, there were certain elements of emotional attachment which Q could recognise. Proximity maintenance was a major one - Bond visited the Q department almost every day, every time he was at headquarters. And when it came to being a safe haven, Q wasn't entirely sure - Bond certainly trusted him more than most of his other colleagues, and asked Q for help in an emergency.

Q wasn't entirely sure if Bond had any sort of separation distress when Q was away. Quickly checking M's reports and statistics, he noted that Bond was more likely to succeed when Q was working with him. That was interesting.

Perhaps, Q thought, I should take a holiday, and see if Bond has an adverse reaction to my absence. It would be an interesting test, to see if the agent suffered at all without Q around. However, Q couldn't be sure of the consequences, and if Bond did have an emotional attachment to his Quartermaster, it wasn't in Q's best interests to encourage said attachment. He knew from his own personality tests that he was distant, often ambivalent and unreliable in relationships, and he supposed Bond was no better.

Tapping his fingers on the desk, Q decided to worry about it later. He had a firewall to crack, and Bond would still be here to worry about tomorrow.

 

Bond found it rather frustrating that Q didn't make eye contact very often. Bond was not afraid of eyes, he looked directly into the pupils of any person he spoke to, friend or enemy or neutral party alike. You can tell a lot about a person from their eyes, their addictions, their exhaustion, their fears.

It wasn't that Q was afraid to make eye contact. Bond supposed he was just from a different era, where you talk at your phone or your computer rather than talk directly to a person. Q often looked him in the eye when he was annoyed, or being direct. Whenever Bond broke or lost one of Q's items, he could get the boy to make eye contact. And his eyes were such a strange shade of pale storm-green, unlike any Bond had seen. And his usually inquisitive frown would hover low in a disapproving manner, as he glared at Bond from beneath the thin layer of glass.

It made Bond smile a little, every time. 

Q's usual terseness had been just as amusing as ever this afternoon, and Bond had taken his advice and stolen a car. Q's car, to be exact. It was a five year old Mercedes C-Class, quite flash for a young man. Bond had been expecting a Mini Cooper or something of that sort. Clearly Q had style of some kind.

He was only in the car for thirty seconds before his phone began to ring. He answered rather cheerfully, "Ah, Q. Lovely to hear from you."

"I would like you to put my car back where you found it, 007."

"I quite like this car. And a manual, too. You're full of surprises, Q."

"The car has just been serviced, Bond. Please take it back."

"Don't like sharing your toys, Q?" Bond asked, amused.

"I don't trust you with the car. I know what you are capable of doing to vehicles, I'd rather my car didn't suffer the same treatment."

"If you let me drive it for the afternoon, I promise I'll bring it back to you in once piece, no scratches," Bond said. "And I'll drive you home."

"Driving me home in my own car isn't exactly a very gentlemanly offer."

"Would you prefer a less gentlemanly offer?" Bond asked.

Q replied sharply, "I would prefer my car back where it was."

"Don't fret, Q. I'll treat her nicely."

"It's not a toy, Bond. It's a personal possession."

"It's just a car. Jesus, Q, I wonder what you'd do if I stole your laptop?"

"It has an explosive in the hard drive, I doubt you'd get very far."

The phone beeped and Bond realised his Quartermaster had hung up. He chuckled.


	2. Chapter 2

_He doesn’t look a thing like Jesus_  
 _But he talks like a gentleman_  
 _Like you imagined when you were young_

True to his word, Bond brought the car back at the end of the day, pulling up at the end of the dank tunnel, outside the entrance to MI6 headquarters. Q had been waiting patiently, one hand on his briefcase and the other in his pocket. 

Bond drove the car recklessly, tyres screeching as he pulled to a halt, engine revving like an animal, less dignified than Q was used to. He drove it like a normal person. He stepped forward and got inside the passenger seat. He knew there wasn’t much point trying to convince Bond to let him drive his own car. God forbid.

“See, not a scratch,” said Bond with a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Q didn’t return the smile. “I still worry about its insides. If I do need a new clutch, you’ll be paying for it.”

Bond chuckled. “So, where am I taking you?”

“Soho. Broadwick street.”

They drove in silence for a short while, but got stuck in traffic. London peak hour was always fun. 

“Had a nice day then?” Bond asked, after the silence had finally settled into comfortable quiet. 

Q blinked. “It was rather productive.”

“Well done on that firewall.”

“Who told you?” Q frowned. 

“Nobody told me. I knew you’d get it.” When Bond’s eyes shifted to glance at him, Q realised he felt rather self-conscious. The agent usually made an effort to point out all the things that were wrong with Q – his hair, his youth, his dress sense, his spots. But it appeared that Bond was actually being nice.

Q cleared his throat. “Yes. It took longer than expected but it was done.”

Frowning slightly as he stared out the window at the few drops landing on the glass, Q wondered whether he should begin his experiments concerning Bond’s emotional attachment yet. Perhaps it was too soon. But it was a good opportunity and it could perhaps reveal a bit more information.

A short while later, as Bond pulled into the car park behind the small building where Q had a ground-level studio apartment, they got out of the car and Bond held the keys out in his hand, obediently handing them over.

Q glanced at the keys. “Would you like to come inside?” he asked, rather calmly. “I’m afraid I didn’t get a chance to ask about your car, and I – we will both have to write in the damage report. I might as well get the details now.”

Bond was still for a moment before he clicked the lock button on the car and threw the keys back to Q. “Sounds good,” he said. “Lead the way.”

Q lead them inside and opened the door to his apartment. It was modest, white walls and wooden floors, one room which contained the kitchen, bedroom and living room, another separate room with a bathroom and laundry. It was simple and Q didn’t have to share with anybody.

Bond glanced around the apartment, eyes lingering on the cheap paintings on the walls and the mess of blankets and pillows on the low bed by the window. There was a television near the bed – Q didn’t really need a couch when the bed worked just fine as both.

The most impressive part of the apartment was the large table in the centre of the apartment, which on one side was clear, to serve as a dining area, with coasters and placemats. The other half of the table was covered in computers and monitors, hard drives stacked on top of each other, a mess of cables and motherboards stacked beneath the table, with a huge office chair to top it all off.

Placing his briefcase and jacket down on the clear half of the table, Q asked Bond if he wanted a drink.

“What have you got?”

“Orange juice, water or tea.”

Bond stared at him. “Are you being serious?”

Q blinked. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

Bond gave a little shrug. “I suppose it makes sense. A man of your stature probably can’t handle his alcohol very well.” Before Q could retort, Bond added, “A glass of water is fine.”

Pursing his lips for a moment, Q wandered over to the fridge and took out the water jug for Bond and orange juice for himself. “Actually, I don’t drink because of my diabetes. My liver can’t regulate my blood sugar levels if it has to detoxify my body.” Glancing back at the blank-faced agent, Q added dryly, “I do like to avoid hyperglycaemia, when I can.”

Bond was quiet for a moment while Q poured their drinks. As Q returned to the table, he said, “I didn’t know you were diabetic.”

“And you know everything, do you?”

“I’ve never seen you take insulin.”

“I don’t use a needle. I have a pump.”

“A what?”

Q sighed. “Perhaps I should direct you to Wikipedia. That should explain it all quite nicely for you.”

“Don’t be so patronising,” Bond said with a frown. “I’m just curious.”

“Patronising? That’s rich coming from you,” Q muttered.

“Don’t be so damn precious, Q,” Bond said, sitting himself down at the table. “You know I don’t mean to hurt your feelings. It’s all in good fun.”

Q narrowed his eyes at the older man, his brain calculating and dissecting information and filing it all away. He was genuinely concerned with Q’s diabetes – which wasn’t a lie, it was simply a well-kept secret – and he seemed perfectly content in Q’s territory. 

It was all quite interesting. It became even more interesting when Q sat down and Bond said, “Have you ever read the theories of Satoshi Kanazawa?”

“Notoriously politically incorrect psychologist,” Q said. “Since when do you take an interest in psychology?”

“It is my job to be manipulative,” Bond replied, the familiar smug smile returning to his face. “I have to know how people’s minds operate.”

“Of course,” Q nodded. “What of Dr. Kanazawa, then?”

“His latest paper. Rather interesting. He wrote that exceptionally clever people are more likely to have homosexual partners. Something about intelligence transcending evolutionary programming.”

Q raised his eyebrows. “Is that so?”

“I thought it was quite interesting.”

“Are you inquiring about my sexual preferences, 007?”

Bond’s lip twitched in a half smile. “Like I said, I’m just curious.”

“About homosexuality, or about me?” Q’s head tipped to the side.

“Perhaps the two are mutual.”

Q’s brain took a little longer than it should have to digest and calculate this information, and form a response. He stared at Bond carefully for a moment before his slender arm reached out and picked up the glass of orange juice and he slowly drank from it, all the while staring at Bond over the edge of his glasses.

This was an interesting development, thought Q. Bond was either teasing him a little less subtly than usual or he was propositioning him. Genuinely unsure, Q asked him. (He’s an empiricist. He needs his experiments to have sound results.)

Bond replied, “Perhaps a bit of both. I find you very interesting.”

“Flattering, but I’m afraid the interest is not reciprocated,” Q said smoothly. “I understand, of course, why you have developed the interest. I am one of perhaps two people you interact with on a regular basis and I am almost certain you don’t feel any emotional attachments to M.”

“Go on, Mallory’s a catch,” Bond said jokingly.

Q smiled only a little. “M aside, I think you should focus on developing relationships with people outside of MI6. It’s far easier for all parties.”

“Easier for you.”

“Much easier for me.”

“Do you find me attractive?”

“You think that we have a special connection, Bond, because I am the only one you connect with,” Q said quickly. “I deal with several other agents and I treat each of you the same. Your feelings don’t enter into our professional relationship.”

Bond’s expression was blank as Q brought up the other agents. It was supposed to deter him, not hit a nerve, Q thought to himself, a little frustrated. Sometimes when he thought Bond would react a certain way, he would do something else entirely.

“What about our private relationship?” asked Bond.

“The non-existent private relationship,” muttered Q.

“In ten minutes, I’ve already found out you’re diabetic, and being hit on makes you nervous. You clean your house almost entirely with bleach and metholated spirits, occasionally a dash of lemon fresh tile cleaner, and if the bookshelf is anything to go by, you still harbor a love for fantasy and science fiction novels which you developed in your youth. You were probably reading Tolkien when most other kids were still learning their nursery rhymes,” Bond added with a smile.

Q was stunned for a moment before he could reply. “You are rather good.”

“I can also hazard a guess that you either have no family or you are estranged and you don’t talk with them often. Christmas, maybe twice a year, but not more than that. And even if you do have pictures you don’t hang them, either because you don’t care for them or they don’t get sent here because you don’t give them your address.”

“There you are wrong,” Q corrected. “I actually do have a family. I have regular visits from my sister. I choose not to display pictures because I wouldn’t like my family to be used against me, were I being threatened by a hostile party. You were projecting your own views of family onto me.”

“I don’t have a family.”

“I know.”

They sat in silence for a moment, staring at each other with calm eyes, both of them trained, both of them dangerous and deadly in their own ways. Q quietly felt a small rush knowing he was in the same room as a trained killer, knowing Bond would never actually hurt him. Q had a sort of control over him that was unique, that perhaps M didn’t even have. Bond would not hesitate to eliminate his superiors should they betray him or if they were corrupt – somehow, Q doubted that Bond would do the same to him if he was a double agent. Bond wouldn’t be the one to kill him.

“What are you thinking?” Bond asked.

“About how you won’t kill me,” Q replied smoothly. “You?”

“About how messy your wardrobe is.”

Q followed Bond’s gaze over to the wardrobe by the bed, which had a door half open and jeans, cardigans and socks hanging from the door, drawers not quite shut and clothes definitely not ironed.

Of course Bond would point that out.

Q finished the last of his drink and said, “Well, that’s been an interesting discussion.” He reached into his briefcase and pulled out an equipment damage report file. “Feel free to leave this on my desk in the morning.”

“You’re not going to ask if I’d like to stay for dinner?”

“Unfortunately for you, no. Not know that I know your intentions,” Q added, standing and taking their cups to the sink. 

“I only have the best of intentions.”

“Highly unlikely,” Q replied. “Now, should I call you a taxi or would you like directions to the nearest tube station?”

He was about to turn around when he felt a large hand gently settle on his hip and Bond’s voice at his ear saying, “The last time I was on the tube you were talking in my ear the whole time. I doubt it will be the same without you.”

Q was quite still as Bond left the apartment, and his skin began to prickle in a sort of delayed reaction as he heard the footsteps walking away from his door. He felt his face grow quite warm and he blinked, hands slightly shaking as he wandered back to the desk to start up his computer.

That escalated rather quickly.


	3. Chapter 3

_Can we climb this mountain? I don’t know_  
 _Higher now than ever before_  
 _I know we can make it if we take it slow_

For a man with such perfect self control and maintenance, he was completely lost when it came to Q. Bond had spent the last few weeks masturbating as soon as he woke up, because he’d spent all night dreaming of Q – probably only ten minutes, REM sleep or whatever it was, it felt like all night. After which he would wake up and within ten minutes the memories were gone. So he had taken to getting himself off while the images of Q with half-open eyes and messy hair and parted, gasping lips were fresh in his mind.

It had all been quite under the radar until the other day, when Q had taken him into his apartment and then it had spilled. Bond had tried to act like he was teasing, but it was so difficult to lie about this – for Christ’s sake, Bond was trained to lie and he couldn’t even cover that he was attracted to Q. He had kept his emotions bottled up for quite some time – he’d taken a shine to the young man during the episode with Silva, and Q had done nothing but prove himself at every opportunity, and Bond’s interest had grown and developed and become overwhelming. Any normal person would have made their intentions known long before now.

Bond wasn’t quite sure what it was about Q that he was attracted to. Certainly, he was handsome, slightly tanned skin and that mess of thick black hair. His clever mind and wit was charming as well as offensive, but Bond always liked to bicker and Q was entertaining for him.

Perhaps Q was right. It might only be because he was one of two regular contacts in Bond’s life. But whatever the reason, Bond was fairly certain he was past caring. He wanted to be with Q. And even if Q was genuinely not interested in a relationship with Bond (of any sort), the way he became slightly flustered at Bond’s confession was quite interesting. Bond so badly wanted to see how flustered he could get.

He wondered if Q had ever been with anybody. Boys, girls. He couldn’t see Q kissing a girl. It didn’t quite fit. But he must have, at some stage.

Bond spent most of the morning thinking about Q and his sexual experiences, pondering over whether he had even been with men or women or both, if he had been inside another man or had another man inside of him. It was all quite a lot to think about, and when Bond had signed in at HQ he went straight down to Q’s office.

It had been a few days since their slightly one-sided encounter in Q’s apartment, but Bond knew that Q had reacted. The way he had shifted when Bond’s lips brushed his ear and the slightly shuddered exhale he’d heard when closing the door – oh yes, Q was affected. But he hadn’t come to see Bond since, and that didn’t suit him much.

Q was already tapping away at his computer with a cup of tea nearby, completely unaware that Bond had entered the room. There were a few others sitting around the room, but they weren’t within hearing range.

After having stood behind Q and watching him work for a minute or so, Bond decided to make his presence known. “Morning,” he said suddenly, and Q’s lack of reaction was a little frustrating.

“Good morning, 007,” he replied coolly.

“How are we this morning?” Bond asked, stepping around to stand to Q’s side.

“Fine, thank you for asking,” Q replied.

Bond’s eyes narrowed slightly. The kid was ignoring him deliberately. That wasn’t going to swing, not at all.

“I need to talk to you about that report,” Bond said calmly. This got Q’s attention, and he shot Bond a suspicious glance.

“Report?”

“The damage report for the car, and the GPS device. Remember? We were supposed to finish that yesterday. You know how M is about these things.”

Q was frowning now. “You’ve never taken particular interest in damage reports before.” This much was true – Bond often palmed them off to Q or Eve or anybody who could be bothered doing it for him.

Shrugging, Bond replied, “Maybe it’s time I started doing my homework.” Unable to resist, he gave the young Quartermaster a wink and said, “I’ll swing past tonight. Seven alright?”

“No, Bond, I can’t –”

“Great. I’ll see you then.”

Bond smirked as he heard the aggravated sigh follow him out the door.

 

 

Q actually found himself quite nervous about Bond visiting him at his apartment. After all, he had only been interested to see if Bond had a distinct emotional attachment, out of his own stupid curiosity, and now it was all totally going out of hand.

Or rather, Bond had got his hands around it. All over it. Not letting go... _Christ._

It wasn’t even like this was a proper arrangement. Q knew Bond’s intentions and he certainly wasn’t going to be coming over to write reports and have a friendly cup of tea, talking about their projects and missions, to listen to Q complain about the government funding and how it just took so much longer to do everything when the money was seeped through bit by bit…

No, Bond wanted sex. Lots of sexy sex, with Q.

Q knew that was what Bond wanted, but Q wasn’t quite sure what Q wanted. Well, obviously he would love to have a round or two between the sheets with James Bond. Q used to pride himself on being able to get anybody he wanted when he was at college and university, being able to pull the most unlikely of partners, from the dapper rich boys studying business, to tutors and even the occasional easily-persuaded lecturer, to the fit, handsome boys on the rowing team.

The problem was that Q had not been nearly as sexually active since joining MI6. He had been informed by his employers that he was to remain as discreet as was possible, sever all unnecessary ties and focus on his work as he was an important government asset. As such, sleeping with co-workers was discouraged. As a result, Q had been forced to stop communicating with most of his bed partners and focus entirely on his job, and he wasn’t even really supposed to sleep with anybody at work either, because according to M it ‘caused unnecessary fuss’.

So while sleeping with Bond wasn’t exactly against the rules, it was frowned upon. Not that Bond seemed bothered by any of it. Q didn’t imagine Bond would adhere to any of M’s rules, particularly those regarding sex. That got Q to wondering who else from MI6 Bond might have slept with – and then the most disturbing thought of all...

Why would Bond want to sleep with me? Q wondered. Of all the other lovely, fit, wonderfully rich and beautiful people who would make perfectly good lovers, Bond had chosen to chase Q, who by comparison was too young, too small, too poor, generally too tattered and certainly not the most handsome. It wasn’t as though Q had low self esteem, but he knew that he wasn’t the cream of the crop.

His pondering was rudely interrupted when his doorbell rang, making him jump slightly. He didn’t realise quite how nervous he was until right now, when his chest grew tight and he felt like he couldn’t swallow, like all his uncertainty was rising in his throat like bile.

He answered the door anyway, to find Bond leaning against the opposite wall, looking up to give him a charming smirk. “Evening, Q.”

“I wouldn’t call me that here, the landlord thinks that my name is John,” Q said, stepping back to let Bond inside.

“Is that your name?”

“Don’t be daft. Why would I use my real name?”

“Double bluffing?”

Q simply gave Bond a blank stare before closing the door behind him and walking back into the apartment.

“Got anything to eat?” Bond asked, shrugging off his coat and draping it over the back of one of the chairs.

“I was going to reheat lasagne. You like Italian?” Q asked, wandering into the kitchen to check the oven temperature before he took the leftover half-lasagne out of the fridge. He had been planning to live on it for the next few days at least, but if Bond was going to insist on being fed, Q supposed he could make do.

“Yes, though I don’t usually get home-made. Most of my meals come from a microwave.”

Taking the plastic wrap from the dish and placing it inside the oven, Q set the timer and stood back up. “I would have thought you were the restaurant type.”

“I get fed on missions. I don’t like going out much when I’m home,” said Bond, leaning back against the table. Q felt self-conscious for a moment when Bond’s sharp, pale eyes gave him the once over. Q was wearing one of his old red sweaters, too daggy and worn out to be seen outside of the apartment, and his favourite jeans.

Crossing his arms, Q said, “So, I presume you forgot to bring the report?”

Bond gave a very nonchalant shrug. “How careless of me,” he said, and Q could see a hint of a smile.

Q shifted backwards when Bond pushed himself up off the table and made his way into the kitchen, suddenly making it feel quite too small (even for all of its innovative Ikea space-saving).

“So what exactly do you want, apart from dinner?” Q asked.

Bond didn’t even blink. “I’ve made my intentions quite clear.”

“And I’ve made mine,” Q replied. “I ignored you after you crossed a line I made quite clear was to be left uncrossed.”

“And yet you still let me in your apartment.”

“You’d have gotten in eventually,” said Q. “Besides, I’d have more luck discouraging you with a decent argument, seeing as silent treatment didn’t deter you in the least.”

Bond smirked again and it made Q feel like scowling and sighing at the same time. “You think letting me in here would deter me?”

He had stepped closer again. Q hadn’t moved, keeping his feet firmly planted on the ground and Bond was so close he could feel his breath. Q kept eye contact, watching Bond’s ice blue eyes flicking between his own. The man smelled like cologne – _expensive_ cologne.

“Do I look like a deterred man?” Bond asked.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not sorry for this chapter being so long, but I am sorry for taking such a long time to get to this point. There's lots of detailed sexy sex. Enjoy!

_Burning down a highway skyline_  
 _On the back of a hurricane  
_ _That started turning when you were young_

“You realise this is highly inappropriate,” Q said, his voice not nearly as calm as he had hoped it would be.

Bond raised his arm, and despite himself, Q flinched. He knew Bond wouldn’t hit him but it was so difficult to keep still when he felt so tense, when he was apprehensive, when a man as deadly as James Bond was standing in such close proximity.

Bond paused for a moment before he moved again, brushing the back of his hand very lightly against the smooth skin of Q’s cheek, down to his neck, his fingertips tugging slightly at the hem of Q’s sweater.

“I like this one,” Bond said, and Q wasn’t sure why, but right in this moment Bond’s voice seemed to reverberate, through his skull and sternum and stomach. It went right through him and the hair on the back of his neck stood up straight as Bond’s hand trailed down his arm.

“I’m glad you’ve finally found an item of my clothing which you approve of,” Q replied, knowing his response was delayed, even if only by a second.

Bond’s hand shifted to trail down Q’s abdomen, but he hesitated when he brushed over the tube attached to Q’s stomach. “Do I need to worry about that?”

“Worry?”

“Won’t it get in the way of proceedings?”

“I – you don’t have my direct permission to proceed,” Q said sharply, glancing up.

Bond simply raised his eyebrows, before he grasped onto Q’s jaw and planted his mouth on the young Quartermaster’s. The first gasp Q made was of shock, though he should have expected it. The second gasp was simply from the _feeling_ of Bond’s lips against his own. They were slightly dry, and his unshaven skin was rough against Q’s, and his tongue delved inside Q’s mouth leisurely, to draw out a very small but resonating groan from the back of Q’s throat.

When Bond pulled away, there was a flush in Q’s cheeks and he had to take a moment to control his breathing. 

“Do I have permission to proceed now?”

Q didn’t respond verbally. Instead, he lifted his sweater and pulled the tube from the small round patch on his stomach, and took the pump out from his pocket, placing it and the tube on his kitchen bench, before he turned back to Bond.

He was about to give express permission when Bond held up a finger. “Wait,” he said, reaching up to remove Q’s glasses. “Now you’re ready.”

Q squinted a little. “It is rather difficult to see without those, believe it or not.”

“Don’t worry, you can keep your eyes shut if you like,” Bond replied, his voice low, almost nothing but breath as he pressed a kiss to Q’s throat, and Q let Bond tug at his hair, pulling his chin up and exposing more skin to Bond’s searching lips, the rough stubble of his jaw sending pleasant shivers across Q’s pale flesh.

Q felt himself shudder pleasantly at the sensation – it had been a very long time since he had been intimate, and he certainly hadn’t ever been sexually involved with anybody quite as experienced as Bond. 

Q shifted slightly when Bond’s hand delved under the material of his sweater and crept up, fingertips trailing along the skin of his hip, and Q’s back arched up, his body unable to ignore the sensation.

“It won’t be a problem? The diabetes, I mean.”

It took Q a few moments to register that Bond had spoken, his words a murmur against the skin of Q’s neck, his stubble leaving red marks and his lips leaving bruises. 

“I – no, it’s fine,” Q replied, breathlessly, frowning a little in disbelief. Bond was actually concerned for his health. Q didn’t know if that reassured him, or made him even more anxious.

The thoughts flew from his mind when Bond’s hands tugged the sweater up and over his head, and the chill made Q shiver, but he wasn’t cold for long because Bond had torn his own shirt from his body, and proceeded to push Q up against the bench, pressing his own warm skin to Q’s. 

Bond was large. His arms were big, his chest was big, his torso and abdomen were solid panels of muscle, and his hands were large and calloused and Q felt like he was being enveloped by the man. It wasn’t altogether a bad feeling. Bond’s lips returned to kiss him and Q’s hands scrambled to hold onto Bond’s neck as their lips were crushed together.

Q made a strange keening sound when Bond ground their hips together, and Q only realised now that he was already half-hard. That was an interesting development, he thought, before Bond did it again, this time with a hand resting on Q’s ass, pulling him closer and pressing harder.

“Bond,” Q murmured, “I don’t think I’ll be very comfortable in my jeans if you keep doing that.”

“That’s the general idea,” Bond replied, before he stepped back. For a moment, Q’s stomach dropped as he thought Bond was going to stop there, but then the agent grasped his hand and pulled, leading him towards the unmade double bed by the window.

“Do you trust me, Q?” Bond asked, as he sat down on the edge of the bed.

“Hardly,” Q replied, but he was reconsidering his response as Bond pressed a kiss to his stomach, just above his navel, before his lips traced down the skin to the denim, and then his deft fingers were unbuttoning the jeans and unzipping them, pulling them down.

“You’re so slender,” Bond said absent-mindedly.

“We can’t all be as well-built as you.”

“You think I’m well-built?”

Bond’s raised eyebrows were enough to make Q stammer, but before he could talk properly the agent grinned and lowered his lips to kiss at the skin of his hip as he pulled the jeans down the rest of the way, and helped Q to step out of them. 

A moment later, Bond had snaked an arm around Q’s middle and pulled him down into his lap. Q made a slightly startled noise, and Bond wasted no time returning his lips to the Quartermaster’s neck. Q was tense for a moment, unbalanced, his hands grasping onto Bond’s biceps to keep steady, but he soon relaxed into Bond’s embrace, the mouth on his skin doing sinful things, his mind a mess of unfinished calculations and hypothesis, of theories and plans torn apart by the new overwhelming _desire_ making itself known in the soft groans that came from his lips and the tightening in his pants.

Bond returned to his mouth, his sharp teeth tugging at Q’s soft lips and his tongue tasting, exploring, sending hot fire down Q’s spine. He barely noticed the way he was grinding down into Bond’s lap until the agent groaned, low and desperate, the noise more like an animal’s growl than a human sound.

And it made Q feel rather good, to be honest. Knowing that he could make this dangerous, dark and rather sexy man feel that way. Q’s hands moved to grasp Bond’s face and take control of the kiss as he repeated the movement of his hips, and he was a little startled when Bond’s hand slipped down to grasp at his ass, but if the way Bond smiled into the kiss was anything to go by, Q knew he was doing something right.

Bond’s hand touched his face as they broke their kiss, his palm grazing against Q’s jaw, and Q turned his face to kiss at Bond’s wrist. Bond stared at him, his usually cold eyes a little wider and more human, more caring, more wanting.

When Bond’s fingertips brushed against Q’s lower lip, red and swollen from their ferocious kissing, Q stayed quite still. He wasn’t sure what Bond was doing, but then his other hand palmed at the growing bulge in Q’s briefs, and Q’s eyes fluttered shut as his hips shifted forward, into Bond’s grasp.

And then Bond slipped a finger past Q’s lips, delving into the warmth of his mouth, and Q’s eyes opened again. Bond gently told him to suck, and after a moment’s hesitation, Q did so, his tongue stroking the calloused skin.

Bond slipped in another while still stroking the younger man through his underwear, and then he pulled his fingers away, slick with saliva, and he slipped his hand down the back of Q’s briefs.

“Oh Christ,” Q breathed.

“Alright, Q?”

“Yeah,” Q replied, swallowing. “Yes.”

He tried not to shift away when he felt Bond’s fingers probing at his entrance, but he was unable to hold back the startled gasp when Bond slipped a finger inside. He hadn’t eased his way inside, he had simply pressed in all the way to the knuckle.

“Christ.”

“Does it hurt?”

“Just – been a while,” Q managed, keeping a white-knuckled hold onto Bond’s shoulders, pulling himself further into Bond’s lap and closer together.

“I’ll be nice, I promise.”

Q would have snorted but Bond had curled the finger he still had inside of him, and Q’s mouth parted in a drawn out moan as Bond prodded at his prostate. He was accurate, that was certain.

“Shit, James,” Q gasped, and Bond looked up at him with a strange expression. Perhaps it had been a while since anybody had said his name quite like that. “What?”

“You don’t ever call me James,” Bond said, with a sly smile tugging at his lips. 

“We’ve never been in a situation which requires first-name basis before,” Q muttered, still coherent despite the sinful things Bond was doing with his fingers.

“I don’t know your first name.”

“That’s no concern of yo- _oours_ ,” Q had begun quite properly, but his voice left him when Bond pressed another finger inside of him and began to scissor them, stretching Q and rubbing over his prostate every now and then.

“So, ‘It’s been a while’?” Bond asked, and Q opened his eyes to see he had raised a sly eyebrow.

“It has,” Q said, though his voice was mostly moans at this stage.

“You’ve done this before.”

“You sound ss – surprised,” Q stammered, “Fuck.” Bond knew exactly where to stroke and delve to make Q squirm, and it _had_ been a long while.

“I just thought you were a bit proper, that’s all.”

“Tell that to the quad sculling team at Cambridge,” Q muttered, before a stuttered moan left his lips when Bond did something particularly devilish with his fingers.

“A whole team of rowers?” Bond said, raising his eyebrows. “Now there’s something I’d like to see.”

“Only three – three of them,” Q stammered, pressing his forehead to the crook of Bond’s neck. “One of them had a girlfriend.”

“His loss.”

All the while he was fingering him, Bond was tugging slowly and lightly at Q’s erection, and the sensations were all becoming a bit much. “James – I need more,” Q gritted out, through clenched teeth.

“You said it’s been a while. I’m being gentle,” Bond replied, and Q knew he was teasing.

“Fucking hell, I don’t need you to be gentle,” Q gasped as he ground down. “I just – I need –”

“Yes?”

“Christ, don’t make me ask for it. Just – James, _please_.”

“Will you do something for me first?” Bond asked, and Q shifted back to see the serious look in those calm blue eyes.

“I – maybe,” Q gulped, and the agent chuckled.

“Nothing serious, Q. I have just been wanting this for some time – and there are some things I would like to see.” His hand left Q’s aching cock to open his own trousers. “Like you on your knees, with your mouth on my cock.”

He was speaking low, his words nothing more than a slight mumbling, but they sent a wave of heat through Q’s body. It didn’t help that he whimpered when Bond removed his fingers, and the incredulous look Bond gave him made his blush darken further.

Slipping from Bond’s lap to the floor, Q waited for Bond to shift his trousers down a little further, pulling his briefs down at the same time to release his own erection. Q shifted closer to let his focus adjust – it was significantly larger than his own, and rather thick. Circumcised, like himself. The head was swollen and purple-red, and blue veins pulsed along the length.

“To your liking?” Bond asked, being cheeky.

Q did not grace that with a response, instead choosing to shift forward and grasp his cock, lifting it to lick a long stripe from base to tip. The drawn out groan that came from Bond’s mouth was quite divine, and Q did it again.

When he slipped his lips over the head and licked the bead of precome from the slit, Bond growled, and his hand moved to thread through Q’s tousled hair, silently asking for more.

Q was tempted to tease him, but he so badly wanted to show Bond how good he was. How pathetic. Willing to get on his knees and suck cock like a whore just to impress a man who could have anyone he wanted.

 _But he chose you_ , a small voice sounded in the back of Q’s mind.

Figuring that the voice was right, Q pressed forward, his lips stretching around Bond’s cock as he took it all in slowly, swallowing him all until his pretty little nose was pressed against the dark hairs of Bond’s crotch, and only then did he take shallow breaths through his nose, barely able to breathe but not caring over-much, because the sound of Bond’s ragged breathing and groaning was wonderful.

“God, you’re so good, Q,” he growled, hips shifting up as Q pulled back, leaving the skin slick with his saliva and relishing the way Bond swore loudly when he swirled his tongue around the sensitive head.

“To your liking?” Q asked, repeating what Bond had asked before, and Bond smiled for a moment before he took a handful of Q’s hair and pulled him back onto his cock.

“You have no idea.”

Q could feel his own erection still pulsing as Bond pulled on his hair. It was a little bit of a kink, part of the reason he liked to have it a bit longer (not that he’d had many people pulling on it lately). He sucked eagerly, doing his best to make Bond fall to pieces until the agent dragged Q to stand up again, before he said, “Briefs off, now.”

Q rolled his eyes. “All the decorum goes out the window once I’ve sucked your cock,” he sighed, shoving his underwear down to the floor.

He gasped when Bond reached around his middle and grasped his erection, and said in a hushed voice, breath tickling Q’s neck, “Who said anything about decorum?” He let go of him before giving him a quick shove onto the bed. Q managed to catch himself and land on his side instead of his face, turning to see Bond completely naked.

He let his eyes take it all in – James Bond was an incredibly handsome man. All hard muscle, chiselled chest and abdomen and beautifully strong arms with veins dancing beneath his skin. His body was impossibly good, perfectly proportionate.

As the agent lowered himself down to Q, the younger man wanted to ask _why_ , but he knew now was probably not a good time. He completely forgot about any questions when Bond’s mouth was reattached to his neck and he arched up, unable to stop the moan that slipped from his lips.

After a minute or so of Bond attacking Q’s body with rough kisses and caresses, he murmured, “Where might I find your – equipment?”

“Cleverly hidden in the bedside table,” Q replied, gasping as Bond bit down on his nipple. 

Bond reached out and opened the drawer without even stopping his ministrations, and proceeded to slick up his fingers with lube, and begin to stretch Q again. Q felt his cheeks grow hot when a particularly loud groan tore from his throat, but Bond only smirked.

“Maybe I should make you ask for it,” he said quietly.

Q’s eyes were clenched shut, doing his best to ignore the way Bond was ruthlessly prodding at his prostate. ”I – ah – I won’t ask,” he replied. He knew Bond wanted this quite badly, and he wasn’t going to deny himself the pleasure just because Q was too proud to beg.

Leaning over the younger man, Bond thrust his fingers slowly and he said, “I want to know your name.”

“I – you what?”

“It’s only fair,” Bond replied, moving closer to tug at Q’s bottom lip with his sharp teeth, causing the quartermaster to keen, lifting his hips again. 

“F- _fu-ucking_ hell. Why does it matter?”

“It matters to me,” Bond replied, nudging Q’s face up with his own to re-apply the bite marks and bruises he’d left before. Q felt like he was on fire, unable to stop his body from twitching, his insides alight with sensation and yet not quite enough, not quite there...

“I can’t,” he hissed as Bond shoved another finger inside.

“I won’t fuck you until I know your name,” Bond replied, and Q could tell from the tone of his voice that he wasn’t being funny this time.

Maybe it was some sort of fucked up emotional thing, and Q knew that he shouldn’t. It was so unprofessional and so unlike him to give in to that sort of temptation, but he was so close and all he wanted was to be filled, and in a moment he had lost all resolve.

“Will,” he gasped. “William.”

The change was instant. Bond removed his fingers and grasped both of Q’s thighs, pushing them up, before his hips snapped forward and he had thrust inside, completely filling Q, who was unable to hold back the choked, desperate cry.

Bond swore, his head dipped low, feeling Q clench around him. When he began to thrust, he had to hold onto the younger man’s hip to keep him from writhing and bucking off the bed.

Yes, it had been a very, very long while, and Q felt as though he was about to pass out. The glorious stretch of Bond’s cock inside him was so much better than his fingers, and with every thrust, he was brushing over Q’s prostate.

“Jesus Christ,” Q groaned, his fingers digging into Bond’s biceps as he clung on, trying to keep a semblance of control and failing miserably. He knew if he let go he would be coming in seconds.

Seeing Bond lose control was fascinating. His usually calm eyes were alight and his voice was hoarse as he growled obscenities. Q could see the muscles shifting beneath the scarred, ridged skin and he reached out to place his hand flat on Bond’s chest, not to halt him but just to _feel._

And then Bond smiled at him and it was strange. It wasn’t a smirk or a teasing grin, it was a breathless half-smile that shone through his eyes and through his whole self, it made Q feel suddenly very warm.

A moment later, Bond’s eyes closed and he dipped his head down, and he murmured, “Will.”

And then Q came, voice breaking as his back arched and white strings of come smeared his abdomen, and he couldn’t stop moaning as Bond kept on fucking him, only to finish shortly after, thrusts hurried and uneven, burying himself deep inside of Q as he reached his own end.

It took Q a while to realise the severity of the situation, when Bond was still slumped on him, effectively pinning him to the bed, their chests heaving in tandem.

“Uh, James,” Q began, but cleared his throat and started again. “Bond, I – do you mind – uhm.”

“Not at all,” was the muffled response. “Will.”

“I shouldn’t have told you that,” Q muttered, trying and failing to shove Bond off him.

Bond simply raised his head and gave him a frown. “Why not?”

“Because it’s personal information,” Q snapped, suddenly feeling very vulnerable. “I’ve jeopardised my safety by revealing that.”

“You know I wouldn’t tell anyone,” Bond said quietly, before pressing a gentle kiss to the corner of Q’s mouth. “I’m rather good at keeping secrets.”

Q wanted to get angry at him but he knew if he had the argument, he would put himself at potential risk of revealing more information. So he pursed his lips together and said nothing.

“Why can’t you have a name?”

“We can’t all be like you,” Q replied. “Some of us have families to protect.”

“You don’t have a family,” Bond replied calmly, and then he rolled away to the side and Q felt empty, uncertain and alarmed all at once.

“I – Bond, I told you, I –”

“You don’t need to explain.”

So they lay there in a strange, heavy silence for a while until the oven timer went off, and then they ate lasagne together and watched the news report, and Q spent most of the evening frowning, trying to figure out exactly what had happened to his carefully planned experiment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah in case anybody has questions, Q doesn't have a name in the original books or the movies. He is referred to as Major Boothroyd (named after Geoffrey Boothroyd who wrote to Ian Fleming concerning the types of weapons 007 was using), but he doesn't have a first name in the books. In any case, this Q is far too young to be the original Boothroyd so I decided to give him a new name. So yes.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh god! I finally finished it. Sorry it took so long, family dilemmas and whatnot. But here it is, and it's cute and I love Q so much. Hope you enjoyed it, now I've dusted off the establishment of the relationship I might have a few more cheeky one shots every now and then... thanks for reading :D

_Sometimes you close your eyes_   
_And see the place where you used to live_   
_When you were young_

 

The smell of tobacco drifted back into the apartment, wafting about as Q strode back from the small balcony and through to the bathroom, not looking at Bond as he went to get himself ready for work.

When Q had asked if Bond had any cigarettes, the agent had raised his eyebrows.

“I didn’t know you smoked,” Bond had replied, pulling one out from the pocket of his jacket, which was still hanging over the chair.

“I don’t much anymore,” Q replied quietly. “Used to a lot, when I was studying.”

“With the rowing team at Cambridge?” Bond teased.

His taunt received an angrier-than-usual glare, and Q snatched the cigarette from his hand and wandered outside, wearing a pair of slack green pyjama pants and a plain white shirt. Bond quite liked the way he looked with a cigarette, slightly more like the young man he was. Or should be.

James was pleasantly surprised when Q didn’t make him leave last night. He let Bond stay the night, let him sleep in the same bed, didn’t complain when he took up too much space on the slightly undersized mattress.

However, Q’s hospitality only went as far as letting Bond sleep over and use his facilities. He didn’t seem particularly interested in making any sort of conversation, and snapped at Bond to leave him alone when he tried to watch the younger man reattach his pump and check his insulin levels, saying, “I’m in no mood to entertain you with my medical condition.”

Bond knew it wasn’t because Q didn’t like him. Of course Q liked him, and there was the problem. He felt insecure and uncertain now that Bond had infiltrated his home, his mind, his life. Bond hadn’t meant to get so emotionally intimate so soon, and he was worried now that Q would try to shut him out.

Bond wanted to talk to Q about it as soon as possible, to clear the air and make sure all was well, but he was ushered out the door to a taxi once he’d showered and eaten, left looking a little dumbfounded out the front of the apartment block with a taxi driver asking him where he was headed.

Bond felt like laughing at his situation but it didn’t seem particularly funny, or at least it wouldn’t until he figured out exactly why Q was so determined to keep him at least an arms-length away. Instead of storming back in and demanding to know what was going on, Bond complied, giving the younger man his space and letting himself be taken away. 

* * *

Q peered out of the window and watched the cab drive down the street, a nervous finger tapping on his lip, before he hurriedly shut the blinds and stepped back to sit on the bed. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to ease some of the tangles from it, and he thought.

He had been doing a perfectly fine job of keeping Bond out of his personal life. He had only been meaning to see if the man had any emotional attachments, and it was quite obvious he had a number of attachments of many different natures. But sleeping with Bond had resurfaced a few too many of Q’s own insecurities.

Like his own emotional attachments, for instance. Or lack thereof. How did Bond know about his family? Q pondered. Surely M wouldn’t have let him read that file. That was confidential, _nobody_ at MI6 apart from M knew about that. He couldn’t have possibly put it all together without it.

And now he knew his name, something Q had desperately tried to keep secret. Q had completely changed his identity when he’d joined MI6, to make sure all his skeletons stayed in their respective cupboards. And now, those skeletons seemed to be fucking _dancing_ for Bond.

Or maybe Bond didn’t know, and he could just tell. Like it was some sort of intuitive thing.

Either way, it didn’t matter. The point was that Q didn’t have emotional attachments, because most of them died or went away. It was why most of his relationships were short and trivial. The problem now was Bond – he wasn’t going away, and Q certainly didn’t see anything short or trivial about a relationship with a man like James.

But he’d already made the connection, and now Q was stuck, his old ghosts coming back to haunt him, his old name echoing inside his own apartment where he swore he’d never let it be heard.

And Bond was not a man to be avoided. Q would have to speak with him sooner or later, he was his quartermasterfor fuck’s sake. With a tired sigh, Q decided to get his sweater on and go to work, wishing he’d nicked another cigarette for good measure.

* * *

Q was half expecting Bond to make an impromptu visit to his department and cause some sort of scene, but no such thing happened. He walked past a few times and gave Q a nod and a smile through the glass as he went by, but didn’t walk in and make a silly request or bother Q in the slightest.

The second time he walked past and gave Q a slight smile, Q simply nudged his glasses back up his nose and kept on working. There were important people’s computers to hack and ever-changing security code programs to write. Busy, busy, busy. Q’s second assistant had already refilled his tea three times and it wasn’t even lunch. The tea-per-hour ratio was a guide to how well Q was working – this morning, not so well.

Taking a mouthful of not-quite-hot tea, Q pondered over the situation. Now that he’d had a few hours to himself to calm down, he thought about how bad it would be to confide in Bond. If they were going to be sleeping together regularly (which Q was in favour of, given last night’s performance) and spending more time together, perhaps it was better if Bond knew a bit more about him. It was only fair, because Q knew everything about him...

Q frowned. That was the same method of thinking that had resulted in revealing his name – _you know mine, it’s only fair I know yours_. But wasn’t this more than names? And besides, if anybody was going to know about Q’s past, Bond was probably the most trustworthy. If Bond knew, it wouldn’t be a threat. Or at least Bond’s psychological results suggested he was unlikely to be disloyal to those he considered close friends.

What about lovers? Q frowned again. Was ‘lovers’ the right term? They’ve only done it once, does it have to be a regular occurrence for ‘lovers’ to be applicable?

Rubbing at his aching forehead, Q knew he was over-thinking it. It was never this difficult at university, where you could just fuck anybody, as long as you’re nice to them when you see them in class.

But Bond was being quite nice at work. That had to count for something.

Q went through all the fact in his head. It only took a moment for him to take out his phone and send a quick message to Bond which read ‘ _Come over again tonight_?’

Bond’s response came less than a minute later.

‘ _Gladly_.’ 

* * *

Bond actually arrived before Q did, and was reclined on a chair, reading the newspaper. When Q walked in and saw the lights were on, Bond saw his hand dart to the inside pocket of his jacket – but when he stepped further into the room and saw who it was, he gave a slightly shaky sigh.

“For fuck’s sake, Bond, what’s wrong with waiting in your car?”

Bond shrugged. “Sorry. Just thought it was a bit warmer up here.”

Q didn’t respond, moving to place his bag on the counter and start to put his things away. A few minutes of heavy silence passed as he did so, and once he was finished he moved to sit opposite Bond. He didn’t offer drinks, and he didn’t ask any questions before he began to speak.

“I don’t like emotional connections,” Q said bluntly.

“Okay,” Bond replied.

“I understand that you have – certain feelings for me. Which I don’t feel that I can reciprocate.”

“Are you breaking up with me?” Bond asked jokingly.

“We were never in a relationship,” Q said. “And that’s not what I’m doing. I’m actually trying to make this work.”

“I’m getting mixed messages.”

Frustrated, Q ran both hands through his mess of dark hair. “Just – Jesus Christ, Bond, you _know_. You must know.”

Another moment of silence passed before Bond replied, and when he did, the humour had left his voice.

“Yes.”

“Then you understand why this is so difficult for me.”

Bond’s pale eyes were unusually warm when he spoke. “I understand that losing your family isn’t easy. And that you’re afraid to let yourself want anything for fear of losing it.”

Q felt his chest grow tight and uneasy, and he felt that familiar clutching, breathless sensation of an impending anxiety attack. He glanced down to see his hands shaking, and he clenched them into fists til his knuckles turned white.

“Will?”

“ _Don’t_ call me that!” he snarled, regretting it as soon as he’d said it. Bond was just trying to help. But god, it was a difficult process. “You know, Bond. You know how I feel. Don’t make it any fucking worse.”

Taking a deep shuddering breath, Q tried to ignore that Bond was staring at him intently, and he went on. “I just – it’s so very hard for me to care for anyone. Everyone I have ever – I have ever had – has been taken away.” Finally looking up, he said, “I don’t think I’d survive losing you.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Bond said.

“You don’t know that.”

“No. But I will do whatever is in my power to stay.”

After a moment, Q laughed. “This is ridiculous.”

“What is?”

“I thought I was far superior to you, at first. Because you were the one with the attachment. I was so very sure I didn’t have the capacity to care for anything anymore.”

Bond’s lips twitched into a smile. “Is that why you were so callous this morning?”

Q nodded. “I got – scared.”

“Understandably.”

“I’m sorry,” Q said. It wasn’t difficult for him to say, because he was sorry. He didn’t mean to act the way he did, he was just a little overwhelmed at everything. Annoyed that his carefully planned experiments had been screwed up, frustrated at Bond for being so damn calm about everything, confused because he wanted to kiss Bond and be held by him, but at the same time a deep-seated fear tightened his chest and squeezed his lungs and told him to get out while he was still in one piece.

But he didn’t have to explain all that to Bond. He just seemed to know. Maybe it was intuition after all.

And Q was quite pleased that they didn’t have to talk about it anymore – Bond seemed to understand that Q was letting him in, after years of meaningless sex and keeping people at a distance he was finally letting himself be called a lover, give all of himself to someone, trust them enough to put everything into their hands.

And Bond had such wonderful hands. He took Q’s hand in his and pulled him to his feet, grasped his chin and kissed him, a gentle reassurance which quickly escalated when Q stroked Bond’s lips with his tongue, eliciting a groan. Bond’s hands snaked around Q’s middle, grasping, searching, pulling at the crisp white shirt. Q’s hands were at Bond’s collar, just trying to keep himself upright.

They barely made it to the bed, Q clawing at his buttons while Bond calmly removed his own shirt. Q was taken aback once more by the vastness of Bond’s chest, the smooth skin marred with a multitude of barely visible scars against pale skin. Bond held Q in place with a firm grip on his hair as he kissed him slowly, driving the younger mad as he pressed their lower bodies together, becoming more and more desperate for friction.

But Bond seemed more than happy to take his sweet time, slowly removing his belt and unbuttoning his trousers. Q did the same though his fumbling hands took longer to remove his pump and jeans, and they both kicked their shoes onto the pile of clothes by the bed as they fell to the mattress.

Q nearly fainted at the feeling of Bond’s body pressing fully against his, so close that there was no air, no space between them. Bond laced his fingers with Q’s and held his hands above his head, kissing leisurely though notably harder than before. Q didn’t even care that he was squirming and bucking like a virgin teenager, he didn’t care that he was murmuring James’ name with every breath, every break of the kiss, pleading, wanting more.

And when Bond finally left his lips to kiss at his jaw and neck, he murmured, “Will.”

Q gasped as he felt Bond’s teeth scrape across his pulse, and his skin grew warm, and his stomach turned in a most acceptable fashion.

He whispered, “Again.”

He felt rather than heard Bond’s chuckle as he mouthed at Q’s skin, before he lifted his lips to Q’s ear and said in a low voice, “ _William_.”

Q couldn’t help but groan. It had been a very, very long time since anybody had used his name in such a way. He could hardly remember anybody making it sound quite so sinful, either.

And then, he felt Bond’s palm leave his hand and slide between their bodies, across Q’s abdomen, growing ever closer to his swelling erection as he said three very significant words in the most delicious way, his voice little more than a soft growl as he spoke.

“William,” he said, as his fingernails scraped over Q’s hip, “Geoffrey,” as he licked a stripe up the side of Q’s neck, “ _Boothroyd,_ ” he finished, as he grasped Q’s cock and bit at his earlobe.

The stuttered cry that came from Q’s lips was pathetic, and he felt foolish for being so affected by Bond’s voice, Bond’s mouth tasting his name, but when he looked up and saw those steely blue eyes burning with a furious need he decided that he’d squeal like a pig if it meant James would keep looking at him like that.

Q felt the heat rising in his cheeks as he spoke but he said it anyway. “James – James, please –”

While the preparation was hurried and fairly messy, the sex itself was not. After having prepared Q for a quick minute, James sat back on the bed, and pulled Q into his open lap, above his cock, with a gentle hand on Q’s hip.

Q sank down onto Bond’s lap and positively moaned when Bond was inside of him. The stretch and the heat and the way Bond was already slightly panting was so wonderful.

But unlike last night’s sporadic fuck after the lengthy foreplay, tonight Bond was patient. He stopped Q from thrusting down too fast with a firm hand on his hip and only let him rock gently against him. Once Q had figured out what it was that he wanted, Bond used his hand to pull Q ever closer, holding his middle and pulling their bodies together once more, all while Q was gently rocking down against him.

Q buried his face in the crook of James’ neck, barely able to breathe let alone focus on keeping an even rhythm. Luckily for him, once his movements began to falter, Bond picked up the pace, thrusting upwards in the same slow manner, and all Q could do was sit, shake and whine at every movement, as he felt his nerves light up and his mind melt to nothing, nothing but sensation, warmth, need and _James_ , whose name fell from his lips with every other moan.

Q could not remember the last time he had been so intimate with anyone. Sure, he was sexually experienced – but very few people had been able to tap into this secret place, behind the walls he had so carefully built. Bond wasn’t just tapping into it, he was having a slowdance in the secret place, he was redecorating it, he was taking the bricks down one by one until there was nothing left between them.

And god, was Q enjoying it. It didn’t take much longer for him to begin to writhe, his breathing quickening, his heart rate off the chart, and he said in a slightly high voice, “J-James –”

“I know,” said Bond, and not a moment later his hand had found its way to Q’s neglected erection, and Q gasped at the sensation of Bond’s rough palm twisting and turning and pulling his climax ever closer.

“I – oh fuck – James –”

Q came when Bond growled out his name, accentuating it with a hard thrust and Q fell to pieces, biting down on Bond’s shoulder as he spilled over his hand, and it was a few short, sharp thrusts after that Bond finished too, his large chest and shoulders heaving beneath Q’s hands.

They stayed that way for a while, both trying to focus on breathing, until Bond gently lifted Q from his lap and lay them both down on the mattress, not caring about the white mess on his perfect chest.

“If you don’t clean that it’s gonna congeal,” Q murmured, barely coherent.

“I could say the same for you.”

Q smiled, before it turned into laughter. Bond chuckled a little, but he was a little taken aback at Q’s laughter. He’d heard the younger man snort and make little ‘hmmph’ noises, occasionally giving a short dry laugh at something or someone stupid. But he’d never actually heard his quartermaster laugh in such a calm, care free way. He’d never heard him _happy_ , really.

“How are you?” Bond asked, smiling at his lover.

“Can’t complain,” was Q’s response, but the smile on his face and in his eyes was enough to tell Bond he was quite alright.

And Q never had to tell Bond not to tell anybody his real name, or about his diabetes or his family (or lack thereof). Bond never told a soul anything more than they already knew about the young quartermaster, even when the gossips at HQ would pester him with questions, curious about the introverted Q, who was somewhat officially his boyfriend now (if you listened to what Moneypenny told the others).

Which meant it was okay for Bond and Q to go out to lunch together and hold hands on the way to the car, though Q only did that when he was really very happy, after some sort of technological success of some kind or another. And he even permitted Bond to come see him in his office more often, provided he wasn’t too busy.

And every now and then, Bond would visit him at the lab, bring him a fresh cup of tea and whisper, “You look dashing today, William,” into his ear, and give him a swift kiss on the cheek before wandering back out, winking on his way past the glass doors. And Q could hmmph and mumble all he liked about disturbances at work, but he could never hide the smile tugging at his lips. 


End file.
